


Rainbow In The Dark

by OrionsVisiting



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drabbles, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, LGBT, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Modern Westeros, One-Shots, Pride, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Sharing a Bed, Sorry I absolutely BAILED on the Daenarya one, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24752098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionsVisiting/pseuds/OrionsVisiting
Summary: One-Shots of various non-straight pairings in Westeros for pride month.1. Gendry/Podrick -Smokes (Modern AU)“Cigarettes make his throat burn and Podrick made his skin burn.”2.Sanseary -Azure (S6 Divergence)“Blue was what Sansa considered to be the color of mourning. Margaery, who fled to Winterfell after Cersei tried to kill her, finds herself agreeing.”3.Jonmund -Oh, To Dance (Ambiguous)“Tormund teaches Jon how the Free Folk Dance.”4.Yara/Various -Recollections (implied post S8/Ambiguous)“Yara Greyjoy has met many impressive and admirable women in her life.“5.Throbb -Musings Of A Dead Man (S8 Canon Compliant)"Looking at faces, eyes, sigils, colors and shields, he wondered; Who is he fighting for? Who is she crying for? What home are they fighting to protect? What home was even Theon fighting to protect? Did he have a home, had he ever even had one?...Hadn’t Robb been home?"
Relationships: Podrick Payne/Gendry Waters, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow, Yara Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen, Yara Greyjoy/Ellaria Sand, Yara Greyjoy/Margaery Tyrell, Yara Greyjoy/Multiple, Yara Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 70





	1. Gendry/Podrick - Smokes (Modern AU)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, Black Lives Matter. So do Black Trans Lives. 
> 
> Please, if you can, go on YouTube and look up “Black Lives Matter donation playlist”. You can just leave it running in the background if you want, all Ad money will be donated to BLM.
> 
> Also, it probably isn’t too smart to start this off with what is essentially a crack pairing, but when have I ever been known to make smart decisions.
> 
> Also, the title is absolutely a reference to the Ronnie James Dio song. It’s a fucking blast, so listen in if you’re in the mood for good music.
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> “Cigarettes make his throat burn and Podrick made his skin burn.”

Gendry/Podrick - Smokes - Modern AU

The Brotherhood was a nasty little pub.

Gendry was pretty sure it’s actual name was a few words longer, but the wooden sign in the front was so old and rundown that no one could properly read it;not that anyone really cared.

He stretched out on his barstool-his favorite barstool. The one turned away from the door and from most patrons sparing him having to deal with any other people. Lovely. Gendry had been sitting in that barstool drinking since he should have been too young to drink (even back then,Thoros and the rest would serve him anyways). He dug his hand into his pocket. He was dying for a smoke, and was willing to risk going out into the bitter cold for it.

He gulped down the last of his ale and waved off Tom, the bartender, signaling that he was going out. He swiveled in his chair. The bar was fuller then he first thought it was, people talking and laughing in small groups. He spotted Clegane in his usual corner in the back glaring holes into anyone who came closer than five feet of him. Retched fucker, that one. He recognized Ned Dayne laughing about something Tom had said on the other side of the bar, looking out of place with his nice clothes and charming smile. He always wondered why sparkling, Dornish Ned came down to this dirty, rundown place. Probably something to do with Berric.

Gendry slipped on his jacket, already dreading the cold. Before exiting, another person caught his eye; a woman built like a brick house. She had short blond hair and wasn’t particularly attractive, malformed face and bulky shoulders, hunched over herself in what he perceived to be an attempt to make herself smaller. She left Gendry feeling a mix of impressed and scared.

Standing next to her was a man around his own height, broad, clad in a studded brown leather jacket that wasn't warm enough for this weather. They met eyes. Black hair, nice jaw and eyes so dark they looked almost black. Leather Jacket smiled at him-not a smirk, a nice, proper, open mouthed smile. 

Gendry scowled deeply in return and left the building.

The Riverlands were cold this time of year. Not proper cold, not like the North, Arya would have reminded him if she were here. But she wasn’t and he missed one of his only friends. It wasn’t snowing or windy, just that bitter kind of chill that seeps down into your bones. Gendry pulled out a cigarette and set it between his lips, digging around in his jacket pocket for his lighter. Fuck. Had he left it on the bar? Knowing the kind of place The Brotherhood was, someone would have surely stolen it by now. 

“Looking for this?” Deep voice. Smooth. Unfamiliar. A bit of a southern accent that Gendry couldn’t quite place. He turned to it.

Leather Jacket was holding out a familiar lighter to him. Ah. From this distance Gendry could make out far more details.

He was wide. Not fat, just broad and built largely. Stocky. Underneath his shirt Gendry could make out defined muscles. Leather jacket was slightly shorter than him, and had an outline of a 5 o'clock shadow. Handsome, he was.

He tore the lighter out of the other man's hand gruffly and muttered a thanks without looking at him. Out of the corner of his eyes it looked like Leather Jacket was going to say something else, but he just ducked back inside the building instead. 

Gendry found himself...mildly disappointed. He huffed at his own emotions and lit the cigarette, leaning against the cold brick wall and running a hand over his shaved head. 

The smoke burned slightly in his throat, and he reveled in it.

***

He always wondered how he found himself back here again.

Stuck between frat boys and drunks who’d been there since 1 pm that day, Gendry always found himself asking why he’d come back.

Maybe it was because it was familiar, a routine thing he just did every week to pass the time. Kinda like how smoking was. A habit he started when he was too young that he probably wouldn’t stop until he’s too old. 

Like scowling or ignoring his emotions, similar to never buying new clothes and more often than not cutting his own hair, it was an easier and cheaper solution to spending his time then anything else he could think of. He couldn’t stand the idea of going to therapy, and his ideal social gathering was watching people interact in the other side of the pub, far away from him.

Tonight though, he finds himself looking forward to someon- sorry, something, it just a little bit. Not that he let himself think about it too long. Gendry’s masculinity was probably just as toxic as his cigarettes.

Not that there was any guarantee that Leather Jacket would show up. Secretly, Gendry looked anyways.

***

It was nice watching him, the blue-eyed man decided. After a hard day at work, it was nice to just lean back and watch someone do all the socializing and laughing for you.

Even in the dingy light of the pub the man always looked good. Like he was better than this. Not like Ned in the sense that money-wise or socially he was better off, just...Gendry didn’t really know how to describe it. It just felt like someone with a smile as kind as his shouldn’t be in the same room as someone with a mug or criminal record as Sandor Clegane. Or even Gendry himself.

He seemed fresh; his eyes and face and hair and hands fresh like he’d just gotten out of the shower. Even if he was sweaty, or his hair greasy, he always seemed clean. Pure. Innocent? Gendry had failed his AP literature class. Metaphors weren‘t his expertise.

It probably was a bit creepy-watching him all the time. Or at least it would be, if he hadn’t been catching the other man watching back.

***

Maybe it was the third or fourth time seeing him after that that he finally talks to him again.

The stranger drank wine every time, without exception. Not the cheap shit either, but what was probably the bar's nicest red wine. Usually more then one cup as well(Gendry once watched him down 5 cups in under 3 hours without looking worse for wear). He never seemed drunk, though. Always in control.

He’d show up regularly on Saturdays; always with the same woman, and always wearing the same stupid jacket. Sometimes they‘d bring with others-a older man who’d always fight at least one other patron per visit, this handsome rich guy with only one hand or the small person who seemed to be Handlesses brother. Never anyone boring. He doesn’t think that he’s screwing the tall woman, but Gendrys never been good at reading people so who knows.

He asks Anguy about them, since he’s the biggest gossiper among the bartenders; apparently the woman was either a lawyer or a bouncer, Anguy wasn’t quite sure yet. Not so sure about Leather jacket. Apparently-

Gendry stops listening after that point because he fucking hates gossip and regrets asking. Instead he watches the dark haired man over the bar, sipping his cheap beer.

They briefly make eye contact after Leather Jacket laughs at something Handless -who was present today- said. Gendry feels the urge to destroy his lunges some more and smoke a cigarette.

He heads outside and decides to stand by the curb (it wasn’t worth getting your jacket dirty just to look cool leaning against some old dirty bricks), watching cars occasionally sputter by on the cobblestone road. He took a pull from the cigarette and waited a moment before exhaling. 

“Not very healthy, is it?” A soft, gentle voice asks behind him.

He lets out a sound that’s the result of both coughing and choking at the same time and turns.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Leather Jacket says with a small laugh. He was wearing a nice red button down and dark jeans along with -of course- the brown jacket. He had taken his drink outside with him, swirling the half empty cup in his hands.

Not trusting himself to speak, Gendry just grunts in return and takes another puff. He doesn’t turn away again, finding himself comfortable with the eye contact. Leather Jacket regards him with a soft, warm interest. It’s not a piercing gaze or a fiery stare, but still quite hard to look away from him. After a moment he speaks.

“Smoking isn’t healthy, but neither is chugging down 4 of those weekly,” Gendry said, motioning towards the wine, and cringes immediately at himself. Lovely, not only does it look like he’s calling the nice stranger an alcoholic, but now the nice stranger probably thinks that Gendry’s a stalker who watches him all the time.

But Leather Jacket just laughs heartily in response, “Touché! Yeah-Brienne always says that too. But beer’s kinda gross and I’ve never had a taste for hard liqueurs, so I usually stick to any red’ I can find.” Brienne? Was that the blond woman? Or Handless? Maybe his girlfriend?

He must have looked confused, so the dark haired man elaborated, “Brienne’s the tall lady I'm always with.”

“Your girlfriend?” Gendry blurts out before thinking about it. He’s rewarded by another laugh. 

“No-No! Never, “ he's told, in a tone of voice that’s somewhere between amused and disgusted(not offended, though), “Brienne’s my mentor, and a good friend, but I’d never date her.”

Then something in his eyes changes, and despite Gendry being taller he still feels  
like the other man is looking down at him. Not in a condescending,maybe more...assertive. In the best way possible.

“She’s not really my taste,” Leather Jacket murmurs softly before slipping back into the pub. Gendry’s body is tingling and he’s glad they’re standing mostly in the dark; he’s blushing. 

Gendry throws and stomps out his cigarette-he didn’t need it anymore. 

***

“Tell me a secret.”

They’re sitting side by side at the bar; Gendry with his beer and Leather Jacket with his wine. It was his second beer and the other’s fourth glass of wine. He didn’t seem drunk though, just a bit flushed.

He would smile more when tipsy. It made Gendry want to see him drink more.

Brienne was out sick today. It was probably strange that he knew the name of this guy’s boss but not his own, but neither had ever bothered with introducing themselves. Maybe there was something freeing about the anonymity, a feeling of impersonality. Like they were just strangers. But not with that question.

Gendry doesn’t spare him a glance and takes a sip of his beer, “About me?” Leather Jacket chuckles.

“Well I doubt you can tell me any secrets about me.” He wasn’t wrong, so the blue-eyed man humored him.

“I don’t actually like beer.” He told him earnestly-a fact no one but himself had ever known. Beer was a cheap way to get drunk, but not a pleasant one. It was bitter, and the beer he drank was so cheap it was basically just alcoholic pisswater anyway. 

“Then why drink it?” Leather Jacket asked, “Why not order something you like?”

“I don’t know.” It probably had to with his toxic masculinity. Maybe he was afraid of weird looks he’d get for drinking girly cocktails or the rude comments. It was more likely the fact that the first time Gendry came here, he had asked for their cheapest beer with the most adult and commanding voice he could muster back then. Thoros had laughed, but humored him, setting him up with the cheapest beer they had. Gendry had been ordering it ever since. 

Leather Jacket’s fingers brushed against his hand. “Well, what do you like?” He thought for a moment.

“Sweet things,” he decided. The wide, happy smile he’s given in response makes his body feel drunk. The black haired man called the bartender over.

“Lem? Could you make us two of the sweetest cocktails you can make?”

If Lem gives them a weird look for the order a Gendry wouldn’t know-he was too busy looking at his neighbor. He feels his heart clench in an almost painful way and his throat constricts slightly. The man doesn’t even think about what that means; he just huffs in the closest thing he’d usually get to laughing, and accepts it.

“Here ‘ya go Pod,” Lem says and sets down two red drinks in tall glasses before turning to another patron. 

“Pod?” Gendry frowns. ‘Pod’ looks at him sheepishly.

“Short for Podrick.”

“Podrick?” Gendry repeats and wrinkles his nose, “That’s not a very particularly- nevermind sorry. I mean it’s a great name.” Podrick laughs loudly at that.

“No no! You’re right, it is quite the ugly name. I appreciate the honesty. Who knows what my parents were thinking.”

“Podrick.” Gendry lets the name roll on his tongue before turning to the man, hand closing around the glass as he raises his cocktail in a toast.

“Gendry.”

***

Podrick smells nice, he decides.

He doesn’t smell sweet or like any specific scent he can think of, but there’s something pleasant about the muskyness that mixes with the smell of faint cologne. Earthy, he supposed. He was hard to explain. Whatever.

He surely smells better then Gendry did though; he smelt like sweat, cigarettes and beer most nights. 

Gendry decided he should invest in a good cologne. It was unfair to Podrick, that when they sat next to each other at the crammed bar, knees touching knees touching elbows touching hands, their body’s so close together that when they turned their heads their lips were almost touching, that he got to smell the black-haired man's wonderful scent while Pod had to endure Gendry’s barely socially acceptable healthcare routine. Podrick never complained though, and he never moved away.

Maybe Podrick smelled a little like leather as well, Gendry thought as the larger man backed him against the cold brick wall and kissed him. 

***

Was this a staring contest? He felt like she was staring him down.

Big blue eyes and bigger, bluer knuckles. Her hands were bruised(but not bloody) and bigger than Gendry’s head. Brienne of Tarth was an intimidating individual, if nothing else.

“So…,” he started, “You’re a bouncer?”

If even possible, her frown deepened. Podrick elbowed him lightly in the side.

“Lawyer, actually,” She said in response, and went back to silently staring him down. He nodded awkwardly in response.

“Oh! I am glad to see that rumor finally kicked off. Wench- you wouldn’t believe it, but spreading rumors is harder than you’d think.” Handless appeared at the table carrying a cup of ale. Sorry, Jaime. His name was Jaime. Thankfully Brienne now moved on to stare down Jaime instead of Gendry, to his relief.

“You know,” the man continued, “It's probably because the bouncer-ones are pretty believable, with all the martial arts you do. I would pay to see you beat the shit out of D.A Connington though!” He laughed, and Podrick joined him. An inside joke. Great.

Looking across the table, Brienne wasn’t laughing. She frowned at Gendry. Gendry frowned back. 

In that way, they understood each other. 

***

“Who’s the bastard in the leather jacket?” Clegane asks him one time when he walks by his table on his way to the toilets.

“Podrick.”

“That’s a stupid fucking name,” Clegane growls as he stares into his cup. Gendry blinks, surprised by the gentleness in the words in comparison to what usual foul shit The Hound spews. Was this...approval?

“It is,” he agrees.

***

He exhales another puff of smoke, watching it gently dissolve.

“It’s a horrible habit you know.”

“I do,” he replies.

“Why do you even do it?”

Gendry shrugs. “Got nothing better to do, I suppose.”

“Don’t you? I can think of other ways to keep you busy..” 

Podrick’s hands feel warm when they hold onto his waist. His breath feels even warmer against Gendry’s neck.

Gendry drops the cigarette, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, the whole leather jacket thing is inspired the weird brown leather that Pod wears in EVERY season he appears in. Also I prefer shaved head Gendry but that’s a me problem.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, stay safe, and tune in next time for more.


	2. Sansaery - Azure (S6 Divergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Blue was what Sansa considered to be the color of mourning. Margaery, who fled to Winterfell after Cersei tried to kill her, finds herself agreeing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the first time since 2016 I think since I wrote a first chapter to something and actually released a second one. 
> 
> The only other time I did this was for a badly written Warrior Cats Pairing fic I wrote when I was not good at writing. 
> 
> So ff.de, ff.net and now ao3, and I’ve finally managed to get another chapter for something I start out. Mazel Tov Orion.
> 
> Anyways, here’s my 2 favorite lesbians. (Listen to You by Keaton Henson for the full h/c experience)

Sansaery - Azure (S6 Divergence)

Though most would feel that black was the more suited color, blue was the color that reminded Sansa the most of mourning.

Black represented death, yes, but blue was as much living as dying; drinking as much as drowning. It mentions those who have passed while acknowledging those who still live. It was calm, collected. Blue had been her mother's eyes, and the dress she had worn the day her father was killed. 

Blue, not to mention, was the color of tears.

Red was violent and angry-vengeful, like the Lannister’s or the Martell’s. Like blood. Green was envious, something that tried to spread and take over, like the Tyrells had once tried. Oh, the Tyrells.

Sansa knew a lot about families being torn to shreds and great houses being seemingly eradicated. Too much, even.

So when, shivering in an azure cloak still stained by blood, Margaery Tyrell rode up to Winterfell’s gates, Sansa did not turn her away.

“Why didn’t you go south?” She asks her softly as she leads the presumed dead queen to the maesters, “Why didn’t you go to your grandmother?” 

Margaery looks at her, wheezing slightly from the cold she had caught and limping, and does not speak. Her eyes were wide, full of emotion with too many words to speak at once. Her lip quivers, almost as if to answer or maybe even to cry. 

“Sansa,” she croaks softly, a plea torn from the gentle lips of a woman who was not used to doing so. ‘Sansa’ she said. Not ‘Lady Sansa’. Maybe it was because she couldn’t say too much, her throat weakened from illness and injury. Maybe that was her answer, the reason she had come here.

The red haired woman just nods, takes her by the arm again and continues walking.

It must have stung when the maester bandaged up her leg. The wide cuts that had been bleeding onto her gown and cloak ever since leaving King’s Landing still had debris from the Sept stuck inside them, leaving the Tyrell in a feverish state, face pale and hands clammy. Sansa sat by her side and wondered how she’d even made it this far without succumbing to her injuries and illness.

And when Lady Margaery was moved to a nearby chamber, Sansa sat by her side and wondered why she didn’t leave.

Healing was a slow process, the Lady of Winterfell knew this well. But while physical wounds close up and fade from memory, emotional pain was something different.

Sansa realized the same applied to Margaery’s injuries. 

She realized this between the blank vacant stares into the distance, and the way the southerner’s polite smiles would fade if she wasn’t speaking. It became clear in the way she would hold herself when no one was watching, how she’d now rather visit the godswood than the sept to pray because despite her excuses, Sansa thinks she just can’t stand anything to do with the Seven nowadays and fears the tight enclosure of the place of prayer.

Sansa doesn’t leave her side for any of this, and so the Highgardner’s presence becomes a familiar one at Winterfell. Some days, Lady Margaery would help her with her duties; she’d correct her numbers if she had counted wrong, and write letters if Sansa didn’t have the time. She found the Tyrell’s company far more pleasant than what Littlefinger had to offer. 

Oh, how wonderful it felt to feel like a proper lady again. They’d stitch and sow and sing together; true ladies of the court. Sometimes Sansa would find herself giggling at what Margaery had said, not once thinking about White Walkers or Jon or the threat of the Lannisters. 

A fortnight after Jon left for Dragonstone, Sansa finds a gown left in her chambers. It was beautiful, a yellow and deep green dress that almost looked like it belonged in a southern court if it weren’t for the thick fabric it was made out of. 

“I wanted it to be green and gold, but I could only find yellow threads,” Margaery explained to her, “I probably could have asked for some to be brought, but found myself rather impatient.”

“Impatient?” Sansa asks her, not bothering to tell her that she probably would not find gold threads anywhere above The Neck.

“Lady Sansa,” she starts, leaning over and resting her hand on the younger woman’s arm with a smirk, “While the North is a beautiful kingdom, full of wonders and magnificent sights, it...lacks a bit of color, wouldn’t you agree? So I brought some color to you. I dearly miss the greens, golds and pinks of The Reach...Oh do not mind me, do try it on!”

The gown fitted her like a glove(mind you, Margaery did in fact give her matching gloves for the dress), and Sansa felt something threaten to burst in her when her friend’s face lit up whenever she wore it. 

The Stark never asks again why Margaery came here, nor does she ever ask when she plans to leave. She needs time to heal, she tells herself, she shouldn’t feel like I’m itching to kick her out. In reality it was more fueled by her own selfishness; she enjoyed the other woman’s company too much, and was afraid that these small moments she had that made her feel young and happy again would end.

And she’d be left wearing blue again.

She found her crying, coldly staring up onto the canopy as her heart still raced from the nightmare. Her throat felt raw and her hair tangled, but she didn’t bother even sitting up when Margaery opened the door, her body too heavy and burdened yet too frail and empty to move from where she lay on the bed. Her face still reddened slightly though.

The night blessed her by being so dark that she was not visible. A shame on the other side though, as it stopped her from seeing beautiful Margaery as anything other than just a vague outline.

“Sansa?” She was asked quietly. Internally she begged her friend not to make her speak out of fear that she’d vomit from her still spinning stomach. It sounded like the shorter woman was creeping closer.

“Are you hurt?”

A hesitant shake of the head.

“Shall I get Brienne?”

A more vehement shake of the head.

“...Shall I stay with you?” She sounded shy, as much as Margaery Tyrell could ever be shy.

A nod.

In the dark Sansa reached out and found her hand, holding it tightly as she guided her to the free side of the bed before letting go. She felt it dip underneath the new weight and the sound of shuffling furs. Margaery moved close to her, close enough that she could without touching her trembling form. Sansa was faced away from her, but could tell that she wasn’t being stared at. Another wet, shaking breath escaped her mouth, and then the crying began anew. 

She held her own self, digging her fingernails deep into her scars, jamming them in deep enough that it hurt. When she did so, it momentarily made that horrible, crawling feeling go away. She feared opening her eyes, fearing what she might see looming above her. Fearing that she’d see large colorless eyes, wicked smiles and promises of pain so great that she would wish she’d die. She pressed herself further into the featherbed at the thought, trying to make herself small.

She cries and sobs and just lets go until the night grows brighter, dawn promising to soon arrive. Then, she speaks.

“I don’t necessarily dream of Ramsey anymore,” she said, sniffing, voice cracking and sounding nasally. Beside her she hears a sound that was probably Margaery jerking either to attention, or awake, “The dreams are less about him and more about what he left behind.” A pause,she pushes fourth five slow breaths to calm herself, “I dream about my family finding out. I have nightmares about them seeing me, seeing all of me, and being revolted by it.

“I-I see my brothers, disgusted by the scars. I see my father, disappointed in how well I deceive, how little I value the true Stark honor. And my mother. Oh my mother. “She was edging on sounding hysterical. “She cannot stand to look at me. Disgusted my looks, disgusted by my behavior, ashamed of the cold wench her daughter has become. No family. No true duty. And no fucking honor.” Another pause to breathe.

“I don’t cry because I’m afraid anymore, and I don’t cry for who I’ve become.” She looks at Margaery, surely looking wild in the dim light, like a feral animal not named Sansa Stark. “I cry for the girl who was lost in the process of it all. I mourn her.”

Soft little hands reach up from next to her and Sansa controls herself not to flinch, letting Margaery gently stroke her hair with one hand and hold her arm with her other. No humming or mummering, no words of comfort of reassurance. Just the sweet, calming presence as the sky slowly faded from blue into reds and yellows.

“I see him sometimes when I wake though, “she confesses softly, “I’ll wake up, unable to move and he’ll be in the corner staring at me. And even though I try to scream or move, I cannot. Often it feels like it goes on for hours.”

“Is that what happened tonight?” Margaery asks carefully. Sansa nods and leans into her touch more heavily.

“Oh Sansa,” the southerner says endearingly, and that’s all it takes for her to turn and bury her face into Margaery’s neck, wrapping her arms around her tightly.

They do not sleep, but simply watch the sun rise and grow brighter, dozing comfortably in each other’s arms.

On some nights Sansa Stark will wake up crying and screaming, twisting in her sheets. Other nights she’d sleep peacefully, not waking once. But on every night, there’d be a small presence beside her, softly petting her hair and holding her till morning comes.

When the news arrives that Highgarden has fallen, Sansa cannot bear to look at Margaery. They’re in the Great Hall, the northern lords assembled in front of her with Bran to her left, the former queen and the maester at her right with Arya lurking somewhere behind her. 

The paper feels like it’s burning her fingertips and she lets it slowly fall onto the table. Sounds of talking and discussion filled the hall, before one voice rose above the others.

“Well, it’s not like those flowery knights were known for their fighting skills anyway,” Robett Glovers muses with a bitter chuckle, “It’s no surprise that cunt of a Lannister queen managed to strike them down.” The murmuring grew louder and a few sounds of laughter accompanied it. Sansa did not look, but she heard a chair squeak to her right as Margaery stood.

“Highgarden has one of the largest armies in all of the seven kingdoms.” Her voice was strong, but edged with disbelief and anger. Only now did the redhead dare a look at her and was almost frightened by the cold fury etched onto the woman’s face. Her green eyes shone, green like the summers in the south, green like the gown she’d sown for her, green like wildfire, laying waste to all it came across. The true face and voice of a queen.

“The Reach makes up over three fourths of Westeros’ food supply. Do you know what this means for you?” She hissed, “That means that Cersei Lannister now holds any chance you Northerners have to survive this winter. But not only are you know without secure provisions, but have lost thousands of soldiers, both cavalry and infantry, who now either are dead or are now fighting for the Lannisters. House Tyrell is one of the most powerful houses in Westeros and you are a fool to discount it.” 

Silence.

Then, “Was,” Glover corrected, his voice soft and solem, “House Tyrell was, my Lady.” 

The angry expression turned into a shocked one, eyes going wide and mouth clamping shut. Without another word, Sansa watches with an aching heart as Margaery storms out of the hall, her hair and gown twirling as she goes. 

“Lord Glover?” She speaks up, and he gazes up at her along with all the other northern lords. “Do that again and I’ll have my sister bring me your head.” With that she dismisses them, hurrying out of the Great Hall, momentarily halting to consider where her companion might have gone. Her chambers? The battlements? Maybe she-

“She went to the godswood,” Arya gently supplied from behind her before silently slipping away, not even giving her sister the chance to thank her. Her own heeled boots clicked loudly on the stone floors as she quickly walked towards the godswood as fast as her need to maintain the image of Lady Stark allowed her.

The young woman stood in the godswoods, ignoring the heart tree in favor of standing next to the small pond in front of it. The pale blue water remains unfrozen despite the cold, perhaps due to the hot springs, or perhaps it was the gods' will, Sansa did not know.

She found her crying, staring into the water, got tears dripping down to join the pool, hand clenched in front of her mouth in an attempt to quieten her sobs. Margaery did not wait for herself to calm before speaking.

“They’re a-al-all d-dead now, Sansa. I’m the only one left now.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” A comforting hand was placed on the small of Margaery’s back, and when she felt it she looked up at the redhead, grasping at Sansa’s dress to support herself, gasping like she was drowning.

“Please, tell me how to deal with it. Please. I can’t stop m-mourning for Loras and my father, and I’m terrified, because even now with my grandmother dead, I feel the same. It doesn’t necessarily even hurt any more of less, it just hurts and continues hurting. I-it feels like this gaping wound inside of my that refuses to heal. I can’t do this Sansa.” The Rose Of Highgarden fell to her knees, taking the Stark down with her, clutching her dress so tightly as if she were to die if she’d lose her hold. Part of her gown slipped into the cold water, but if the southerner noticed, she did not care. 

“And you! You’re so brave Sansa, so strong despite everything, despite all you’ve lost. I need you to tell me it gets better. That I’ll heal. Please Sansa.” She took off her glove and ran her hand over Margaery’s face, tracing her milky white skin with her thumb. She reached over and pulled the girl’s gown out of the sky blue water, feeling it freeze her hand.

“You never will. You never heal from the pain of grief. You just learn to live with it better.”

The grieving Tyrell let out a cry of anguish and threw herself at her, letting herself be pulled into the taller woman’s strong embrace. Sansa held her, rocking her back and forth as her feet grew wet from the snow seeping into them and her shoulder grew wetter from the tears falling onto it.

Many times after this, Margaery would stand in the godswood, staring down into the pool of water, even when it grew so cold that it finally froze over, and would wonder if the grief would ever truly go away. And when she did, a Stark girl would always sit against the heart tree behind her, and pray that for Margaery Tyrell, it would.

Often she has offered to take Margaery to Winterfell’s glass gardens, to show her the winter roses that grew so beautifully up in the North.

But the southerner always would just smile, not her smirk reserved for politics and people but the smile that only Sansa was allowed to see. She told her it would only make her sad; a bittersweet reminder of the people she had lost, and how far away she was from home. A blue rose would never be a golden one, just like Winterfell could never be Highgarden.

So Sansa felt clever then, bringing a winter rose to her instead of dragging her out to the yard. Perhaps it was just Sansa’s selfish desire to see the tender look in Margaery's eyes like she had back in King’s Landing when she’d held a rose.

When Margaery saw Sansa she did smile, her eyes never once leaving the redhead’s, not even when the rose was pressed into her hands. “For you.” She softly told her. The Highgardner’s smile widened, and she took another step closer, and closer, and closer until the Stark could feel the heat of her body and the bottom of her dress against hers. Margaery laid the rose on her chambers side-table before lifting her hands to cup Sansa’s face.

“Oh dearest Sansa,” she said with her eyes so gentle and tender that the northerner felt her heart tug painfully, “Why would you need to bring me a winter rose when I already have one?”

Then she kissed her. Not necessarily calmy or with urgency, with force or chaste or long or short, the kiss might have been heated or it might have not been. It wasn’t a promise, or a confession. The kiss wasn’t out of lust, and it was not out of need.

It was an admission of defeat. It was them giving in to the other, to their feelings and their hurts. It was Ramsey’s knife and Cersei’s cunning and the reality of everything that was going to crash down upon them. It was open wounds and old scars. It was the blue of Sansa’s eyes and the blue of the bloody cloak.

And it was the assurance, to each other, that it was going to be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsey is Sansa’s sleep paralysis demon is probably my best head-cannon.
> 
> Fun fact: My sleep paralysis demon is my mother. She’s great. I actually have a great relationship with her, it’s just that she’s also my sleep paralysis demon. (deMOM hehe)
> 
> I’d also like to bring up that while many people would claim that Ned would be Sansa’s   
> greatest lost, I’ve always liked to claim it would be Catelyn. From what we see they’re super close before Sansa leaves for Kings Landing, and being the proper Lady she is, her mother would have influenced her the most. 
> 
> Also, I die everytime in The Winds Of Winter when Marg throws The High Sparrow *that* look. 
> 
> Every time I picture in my head what that gown is supposed to look like, I can only ever picture Fionas green-gold dress from Shrek and it’s a problem. Please don’t do this.
> 
> Next up: fluffy Jonmund. Can’t wait.


	3. Jonmund - Oh, To Dance (Ambiguous)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormund teaches Jon how the Free Folk dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I wrote around 1,500 words about angsty Jonmund before I got exhausted and ended up writing this instead. I might release the original some other time as it’s own WIP because I actually kinda like it -it just didn’t work well as a romantic one-shot.
> 
> Also, I refrain from using the word “wildling” in this because it’s a slur the Westerosi call them and something we ever see any one of them use themselves. It always feels so weird to me when I see fics that have Tormund or Ygritte of whoever casually calling themselves a Wilding even though it’s seen as an insult. 
> 
> So hear is some short fluffy Jonmund with no plot.
> 
> ((Also a quick reminder that no matter how much you ship Jon with Daenerys; Jonmund is technically canonically endgame. I mean hey what do you want me to say-))

Jon has never seen Tormund like this. Ratty furs striped away to reveal a pleasant figure underneath. The warmer, “southern” weather demanded less heavy clothing then the Free Folk wore, and so furry shoes were often being replaced by leather boots, roughly assembled rabbit-fur coats exchanged for finer, thinner cloaks and pale skin that had been protected from the cold for so long now was exposed to the harshness of the sun that shone beneath the Wall. Tormund was no exception to this.

He almost felt bad for him, the red haired man looking the closest thing Jon had ever seen him to uncomfortable, leaning almost awkwardly against the stone wall as he watched Jon, face hidden in the shadows. Tormund was leaner then he'd thought him to be; still a bulky and tall man, but less bear-like then Jon would imagine him with his mind's-eye. The leader of the Free Folk looked almost dapper in the simple black doublet and a fine leather belt.

“So are you a southerner now?” He asked him with a grin. Tormund scoffed good naturedly, stepping forward towards the younger man. He towered over Jon, his bushy beard and wild hair almost reminiscent of a lion's mane. The awkwardness seemed to leave his body now, replaced by the usual confidence the Giantsbane emitted. Tormund did not touch him, yet he still felt his skin tingle slightly as he approached. 

“Wearing your fancy clothing makes me no more a southerner than flapping your arms would make you a bird, Little Crow.” 

The fire roared behind them, filling the room with a warm glow and making the heat feel almost unbearable to Jon. If this were anywhere else, with anyone else, he was sure this would feel claustrophobic; the walls seemed to be getting closer, the room smaller as fire grew bigger, the red of the fire, of Tormund's hair, of his blood consuming all other color. 

But to Jon, this was the closest he’d felt to safe in a long time.

The closeness of it all was comforting, the warmth of it all seemed cozy, the orange light and the deep black shadows making it feel almost dreamlike. Tormund took another step closer, close enough that they were almost touching, looking down at Jon in a way that made him feel small, and young, a shy blush spreading across his face; somehow, to him, in a way he could not describe to anyone else, this is nice. The redhead’s blue eyes were intense, and Jon gave into the urge to look away from them.

“You look good though,” he says quietly, reaching out to touch the fabric of the doublet, feeling the heat of Tormund’s body through the fabric. With ease, the older man caught his hand, gently stroking the back of it with his thumb, and Jon watched that rather than looking back into those captivating blue eyes again.

“You southerners “, Tormund says, his deep voice an almost gentle rumble, “Always think we Free Folk are simple, and without are own traditions. Most of you can’t even comprehend that we have our own culture and our own foods and our own dances and music. Our own beauty.”

“Dances?” Jon laughed quietly, “The closest I’ve seen your people get to dancing is when you fight.” Tormund’s laughter is much louder than his own, yet it doesn’t seem to disturb the hazy bubble they’re in.

“Oh, you ignorant crow!” He grabbed Jon’s other hand, pulling him flush against him, their chests bumping into each other. “Just because our dances are not as complicated and intricate as your southern ones does not mean they don’t exist!”

The bearded man leaned down, their faces so close together that their noses almost brush, one arm creeping around the others back. Jon felt dizzy, like he’d drunk a whole flagon of wine; the whole world around him, all the shapes and colors spinning and blending together with the only thing grounding him being the sharp, piercing blue of Tormund’s eyes.

“Let me show you.”

“There’s no music,” Jon murmurs feebly, but moves his hand to rest on the northerner’s shoulder anyway.

“Of course there is”, the redhead whispers in a tone one could describe as fierce, “Can’t you hear it?”

And Jon can. 

He hears their breathing, the crackling of the fire next to him, and people talking in the room next to theirs, not but an incoherent hum from here. Beyond that, he hears to wind moving through the trees and the undergrowth, the buzzing of the crickets and the singing of birds. Loudest of all though, he hears his own heart, beating loudly in his chest, threatening to burst from how fast hot blood is pumping through him. He clasps one of Tormund’s hands tightly in his own.

Then, slowly, they begin to sway.

Tormund takes the lead, turning and twisting the both of them in a pattern Jon could not figure out. Sometimes he’d dip forward, or pull back, always taking the younger man with him, his eyes never wavering from his own. The black haired man found himself constantly stepping on the others feet-the dance demanding a lot of foot movement that involved lifting your legs far off the ground-something he realized was so that one's feet would not get stuck in the snow if they were to dance beyond the Wall. The slow motions reminded Jon of water; graceful in its own way, an almost ancient way of movements so peculiar yet so deeply familiar. 

The dancing wasn’t just two people moving around a room: It was the Free Folk lurking in the Haunted Forest, hot fires on cold nights, it was the many dialects of Old Tongue and the rough writing of the First Men. It was Ygritte’s bow and Gilly’s smile and Mance Ryder's words and somehow, all of it was Tormund. 

The many sounds around them melted together, transforming into a slow, steady rhythm that they followed, moving and twirling around the room, dancing slowly to a song only they could hear.

Concerns of love and death and duty were left beyond the door, the end of the world still to come for them, yes, but right now, that did not matter. The room was too small for dancing, causing them to constantly bump into things, their hands sweaty from holding them together for too long and fire was slowly dying out behind them. 

And between it all, Jon remembered what it was like to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you could enjoy this :).
> 
> Next up: my Yara chapter!! This ones gonna be a bit of crack chapter, but don’t worry after that it’s right back to your usual angst and gloom.


	4. Yara Greyjoy/Various - Recollections (implied post S8/Ambiguous)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yara Greyjoy has met many impressive and admirable women in her life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to me using too many commas.
> 
> So uhhhh I get that it’s closer to August then June at the moment but I’m the second slowest writer ever (we all know who #1 is....) so apologies for the wait.
> 
> I originally wanted to make this a fun crackfic about Yara going to Winterfell during S8E2 and just trying to find some company, but in the end I birthed this wailing mess of anecdotes that are * vaguely * connected.
> 
> Also, apologies to the people who’s comments took me long to respond too - to motivate myself to write I only let myself answer comments when I upload a new chapter, because the feeling of guilt for leaving the people waiting is stronger then my laziness.
> 
> The name Yara is used here instead of Asha because it fits in better with show cannon. All characters though are a mix of show and book, aside from Ellaria who is just show.
> 
> So...have fun with this one. I did.

4\. Yara - Recollections (implied post S8/Ambiguous)

Yara Greyjoy has met many impressive and admirable women in her life. Some of which left deep, permanent marks on her soul and body.

Of course that’s kind of understandable; being part of one of the greatest houses of Westeros has that effect. She supposed being ironborn freed her from most of the courtly progressions of ladies tea parties and stitching sessions; giggling and blushing in swirling skirts, jumping to get the attention of the fairest and richest of knights, but just observing them from afar Yara realized she wasn’t missing much-while she was no fool, Greyjoy’s were not known for the kind of cunning required to survive in those kinds of circles, her being no exception. But that still didn’t mean she hadn’t known her fair share of women. 

She supposes the first-but surely not the most notable-woman in her life was her own mother, Alannys Harlow(because really, she’d never truly been a Greyjoy). A woman so mentally unstable she gave the Targaryen’s a run for their money; that’s how Yara wanted to remember her. It would be easier that way, pretending like her mother hadn’t been sweet to her, and kind, tickling her when tucking her into bed and holding her daughter while she sat by the fire, humming slow songs softly under her breath. 

It was easier to pretend only Theon got to see that side of her, that her own Ironborn-callousness came from her mother's neglect and not her desperate need to fit in with her father and older brothers.

But Yara outgrew her mother a long time ago, long before most children did. For her mother was naught but the sand being blown away by the wind, an emptiness in the spaces between the waves, and Yara was a kraken, a Greyjoy, and there was no use crying over someone lost to the sea.

The first real woman who really left an impression on her was Margaery Tyrell, she thinks, at an age long before she was considered to be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. No, the maiden of Highgarden at the age of eleven truly hadn’t been that; she’d had long, gangly arms and was stick thin, skin an unpleasant mess of spots and redness, face round and legs short. In summary, not a very impressive sight. But all those aspects weren’t what stuck with Yara all these years later.

For even without her soon-to-arrive good looks at the age of eleven, Margaery still was a striking figure. She wore confidence like perfume, her back so straight and smile so perfect, just so genuinely charismatic that she could probably wear a potato sack and still own it. 

She carried herself like a lord, like a man, Yara, around the same age at the time, thought, she carried herself in the same way her own father Balon did, better than her father Mace Tyrell. That’s what made Yara realize, no, Margaery didn’t carry herself like a man-she carried herself like a woman. Like a woman who knew what she was worth, and knew that no one would have enough riches in the world to ever pay for her. She commanded attention and admiration, something Yara could both attend to and admire.

Needless to say, when Margaery pulled her into a sloppy kiss after giving her a tour of the gardens, both of them hidden behind a tall hedge with the younger girls pretty dress getting ensnared in the twigs, Yara didn’t protest. The Highgardner didn’t know how to kiss properly-lot of tongue and little coordination-but she kissed with the confidence of someone who did. 

Margaery bit Yara lightly on the lip as they shared their last kiss, parting after hearing some guards walk by their little hideout, and it was sharp enough to feel akin to a thorn pricking her skin. And Yara would never forget that.

The Ironborn were rough people. Rough looks, rough words, rough actions, rough culture. If you want something, you pay the iron price for it. Their women were no exception-softness was not tolerated by anyone. But Yara still had a special place in her heart for the woman who introduced herself as ‘Pearl’ upon their first meeting; a lowborn whore from the Westerlands. 

The dress she had worn had been tattered and yellow; either the wench hadn’t been it’s first owner or the woman had taken it through the ringer a few times, because it wasn’t a pretty site. Pearl had worn her ratted hair up in a do, clearly an imitation of what a highborn southerner might wear. 

‘So,’ Pearl had asked her with a smile, crooked, yellow teeth full on display. ‘What is it you desire?’ The tavern only had a few dirty windows to dimly illuminate the place, and with all the dark shadows if Yara didn’t look to close Pearl almost looked ten years younger and certainly prettier.

‘What do you have to offer?’ A fifteen year old Yara had asked her, trying desperately to appear anywhere close to confident, eyebrow raised and arms crossed.

Pearl laughed loudly, a shrill sound akin to a cackle. It wasn’t a nice sound but it wasn’t a cruel laugh, and it didn’t make her feel any more insecure than she already had. It was more something affectionate, and Yara smiled despite herself because of it. Pearl said nothing then and just stood up and led the Ironborn away by the hand, almost like a mother would a child -probably fitting, seeing as Pearl was old enough to be just that.

Years later, the laugh is what Yara remembers clearest.

Between Pearl the Westerland whore and Daenerys Targaryen were about ten years, forty thousand miles, the Narrow Sea and around two dozen other whores on Yara’s end of things.

The way Daenerys walked and held herself reminded Yara of the way Margaery Tyrell did - commanding. But unlike Margaery she did not demand adoration and admiration; she demanded respect and devotion. When she swept her gaze through a room, Daenerys’ violet eyes passed through every person without halting, not paying particular attention to anyone, and in that way paying equal attention to all. 

Not in the sense that the other people were beneath her - just that she was above them. While her sigel was that of a dragon, Yara couldn’t help but be reminded of a diamond; beautiful, sharp, precious, unbreakable.

When Yara would speak too freely as they lay together, or her actions would be too bold, Daenerys would give her a look, one look with those horribly beautiful, piercing violet eyes and she’d stop. If the Iron Islander wanted something she must ask, must beg - the queen simply took. Because she truly believed it was her birthright to do so. And in some way Yara tried not to think about, that disgusted her.

Truly it was her beauty that stood out - she wondered, briefly, if Daenerys’ rise to power would have been quite as successful if she hadn’t been beautiful. Sometimes, after all the headache-inducing war meetings and quick beddings in the bath halls were over, Yara would look over and see a softness in the Dragon Queen. When talking quietly with her handmaiden, or when she’d gently stroke Yara’s arms and back as they dozed quietly, for a brief moment one might remember that Daenerys Targaryen, like they all were, was just a human. Her first title truly wasn’t Stormborn, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, or even queen; it was just her title of humanity, the one everyone, including her, tended to forget. So sometimes Yara could look at her and just see a beautiful woman, instead of a beautiful queen.

But then she’d blink and the moment was over, and reality would set in: No matter where she’d go or who she was with, Daenerys Stormborn could never leave her identity as a queen behind, so Yara left her instead. 

Ellaria Sand was an interesting woman, and her skin burned to touch. She was boiling hot like the deserts in Dorne, and just as vicious and ruthless. 

Yara wondered about that, briefly, in the moments before their ship was taken. Why did the Dornish woman’s blood run so hot? What fueled her? And just a look into those golden-brown eyes, eyelids smeared with a dark soot, revealed the truth to Yara: revenge. 

For truly Ellaria was just a empty vessel, a machine made to contain all that pure rage and resentment until the time was right, driven forward only with the intention not to restore a semblance of order to the world, but to run her and everyone around her over the edge of peripeteia and into chaos.

Yara wondered, when Cersei cut her up and fed her to the dogs, if Ellaria Sand had bled hate instead of blood.

Cold. Dreary. Lifeless. Barren. Four wonderful words to describe the wonderful North - and to some extent, certainly, their ruler. Ha. Maybe Yara had inherited her uncle's crude and edgy humor after all. 

Sansa Stark put the noble in ‘noblewoman’. With a fixed cold stare and stitchings, sewing and weaving so neat they’d put a spider to shame, the northern queen ruled her land like a mother might rule a household - both stern and loving. Beautiful, lovely red hair and a tall imposing figure, more than a few inches taller than the Ironborn herself; Yara usually preferred to be the one in control of any given situation, but strangely she didn’t mind taking orders from the Red Wolf of Winterfell.

When she’d first arrived there, desperate for a distraction from the brutal pain of losing her brother, the first woman she’d encountered had been the younger Stark sister.

Arya Stark was pretty, sure, but the effect of her beauty was partially ruined by the savage glare she sent Yara’s way that said a lot without saying anything at all. Not to mention how young she was, so vulnerable by not being vulnerable at all. Still plenty pretty though. 

Yara stared at Arya. 

Arya stared back.

‘No,’ Yara had said to no one in particular, and that was that.

Then she’d met eyes with the Queen of The North across the hall, all bitter and angry, and she knew immediately she’d found someone to tear and to be torn apart by.

The stone that made up the walls of Winterfell was numbingly cold, and so was Sansa. Laying there, warm furs and warm skin stopping her from freezing, Yara always felt like she was floating above an abyss, a place where the present met a past that wasn’t even her own. A past filled with shooting bows, running around and laughing with a russet-haired boy, wishing desperately for love that would never be received.

She did wonder if that’s all Sansa saw when she looked at her - like many others ignoring the Yara and instead focusing on the Greyjoy part but for different reasons because Sansa once before had loved a Greyjoy and maybe wished to do so again.

But freezing cold hands running down her body, Yara did not feel like this was love.

They’d sometimes just lay next to each other in silence, never speaking his name but both deeply aware that the other was also thinking about him.

Oh Theon. Oh sweet, glassy-eyed Theon.

She missed him more than any of her other family members combined - even her mother, she thought, gripping the side of her ship. Thankfully, there was a cure for this yearning. She’d have to make a trip up to Winterfell in the next fortnight.

So, Northerners, southerners, Westerosi, Esossi, queens and ladies, whores and bastards and the occasional man who had been unfortunate enough to meet her. A pretty good track record, Yara would say. 

She’d learned many things from the best of the best, and even found things to learn in the worst of them all; mothers, lovers, bedwarmers and even the occasional passing face all had things to teach her, if only she’d be willing to learn -and if nothing else, that she was. 

Not to say they’d shaped her as a person. No, they’d simply given her the tools to do so herself. No one could make her but her.

She met many impressive and admirable women, and surely if she were to be asked about it, Yara would be able to rank them in a list if needed. And what a long list it would be - with one place reserved at the top.

For when all things considered, Yara found the most impressive and admirable of them all was herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my feminist opinion on why the line “most girls are stupid” was a dumb line that should have been corrected in later seasons.
> 
> I’ve been trying to do something different each chapter, but I’m aware this kind of flows like the first one in the sense that there is no flow at all and it’s all chopped together. 
> 
> If you did like the way it’s written though maybe check out my story “Begin, Anew” which is very similarly written but with a way different story.
> 
> Or don’t. Oh well.
> 
> Next up - Fable AU Throbb. This is gonna be a doozy.


	5. Throbb - Musings Of A Dead Man (S8 Canon Compliant)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking at faces, eyes, sigils, colors and shields, he wondered; Who is he fighting for? Who is she crying for? What home are they fighting to protect?
> 
> What home was even Theon fighting to protect? Did he have a home? Had he ever even had one?
> 
> Hadn’t Robb been home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this had actually started as a collection of Throbb AU drabbles but it kinda got outta hand so make I'll post those another time.
> 
> Have this instead.

  1. Throbb - Musings Of A Dead Man (S8 Canon compliance)



  
  
  


Theon would be a fool to believe he’d be surviving the night.

  
  


He didn’t need any Red Priestess or any thousand year old prophecy to tell him that; the thought simply sat in his body, made itself home in his bones.

It was not a wish for death like it had been during his time with Ramsey Bolton, nor a fear of it as he had once had when he was younger. No, it was a simple acknowledgement of the subject that made him feel neither happier nor sadder than the thought  _ I will breathe air  _ or  _ the sun  _ or  _ will rise in the east _ would.

Wandering through Winterfell he felt like a ghost again; slipping through crowds and practically floating through the room and yards with neither anyone or anyplace in mind. He simply wanted to  _ see _ . Looking at faces, eyes, sigils, colors and shields, he wondered;  _ Who is he fighting for? Who is she crying for? What home are they fighting to protect? _

What home was even Theon fighting to protect? Did he have a home? Had he ever even had one?

_ Hadn’t Robb been home? _

And while a part of him feared for Sansa’s safety, or the future of the world, he must admit that  _ really?  _ \-- He didn’t care. He was going die tonight, so worrying about what he cannot effect would not help anyone.

  
  


Strapping himself into his armour felt almost melancholic. He remembered a time as a boy when the idea of wearing armour and going into battle seemed the most wondrous and awesome thing to him. He’d sneek into the armoury, feeling like a shadow or a Faceless Man for cleverly avoiding Rodrick Cassel, and try on the shining silver breastplates and the bulky metal helmets -- with Robb. Every step of the way, Robb would be there too; tiptoeing behind him, handing him the  poleyns, laughing with him when it all would fall off because it was too big for them, and running away with him when they got caught.

Adjusting the clasps of his armour now, he somehow still felt like it was too big for him, crushing him with the weight of the steel.

The room they’d given him was in the servants wing -- with so many guests, queens and kings and lord and ladies and even fucking  _ dragons  _ all residing in Winterfell, this tiny cupboard-like room was the only private quarters still open. Sansa had apologized profusely to him for it, but really, he didn’t mind.

The servants quarters were one of the only places in Winterfell that didn’t directly have Ramsey’s hand on them. Everywhere else was still a memory a reminder -- a stain. The castle didn’t feel like  _ home _ anymore. But had Winterfell really ever been his home?

At some point in his youth the meaning of ‘ _ home _ ’ had transferred from Pyke to Winterfell but now he wasn’t so sure. Now Pyke meant ‘ _ duty _ ’ and somehow Winterfell meant ‘ _ family _ ’ but for the life of him he didn’t know were ‘ _ home _ ’ was anymore.

His breastplate had a kraken etched into it, big and bold, large enough to reach from one shoulder to another, long tentacles reaching out to  _ take take take _ , to pay the iron price like a good Ironborn should.

Some part of Theon almost wanted it to be a direwolf instead. He wasn’t a kraken; the ocean would not welcome him, it would drown him and swallow him whole. He loved the sea though -- maybe it was the only thing that could truly make him smile at all, despite everything. It always had been.

_ Tell me about the ocean, Theon. _

The first time Robb asked him this he had 9 years old and still trying not to cry over the loss of his family and home, snot nosed and prideful with shaking hands. The last time Robb had asked him this it had been a sleepy question mumbled into the back of his neck as their naked legs - arms - bodies tangled together on a small cot on a cold night during the war.

He doesn’t remember what he’d answered either of those times; just Robb’s big smile, and his golden laugh -- and in the later memory -- the kiss they’d shared after.

  
  


He’s in the Godswood now.

Strangely enough he wasn’t cold now. Numbness seeped through his body, and he jerked -- a pale imitation of a shudder.

Maybe Robb would be waiting for him, he thought. It was a childish wish for sure, but nevertheless one he couldn’t get out of his head. He didn’t care about seeing his mother, or either of the men he could(n’t ) call his father ever again, for he didn't  _ owe  _ them like he did Robb. Nothing he needed to tell them even compared to what he  _ needed _ to tell Robb.

When Jon Snow died and came back, he’d told Theon there’d been nothing there on the other side. And perhaps that was ok as well. Fitting that Theon Greyjoy, someone who was no one, who came from nowhere, would go to nothing.

Looking into the Night King’s cold, blue eyes Theon had never felt more alive. Seeing something so dead, so devoid of humanity -- Theon felt like air was being forced into his lungs, that his heart now beat twice more powerful. 

  
  


Theon looked back at Bran, gauging for some kind of reaction, and understood. Truly understood, maybe for the first time ever.

He turns his spear, grasping it tightly, and prepares to charge.

Prepares to die.

Prepares for that what will come after.

  
  
  


It didn’t matter if Robb was going to be there waiting for him, or if there would be nothing at all. Either way, Theon was going home.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah yeah I know its barely Throbb and more just a Theon think-piece with a vague Throbb aftertaste but whatcha want me to say I got sidetracked.
> 
> Next up: Brutal Daenerys/Arya. And I mean BRUTAL. Like, 'how bloody can we get' kinda deal.
> 
> \--------
> 
> EDIT: I kinda lost interest while writing the Daenarya one. I really did try to make myself write something, but I just have such a hard time relating to Daenerys that I balked. Sorry if you were invested in my weird take on it. If you're mildly interested in knowing what I would have written about, lemme know in form of a comment,dm, or my  tumblr and I will let you know.
> 
> I might add more pairings to this story if I feel like it (I have a Thoros/Beric story brewing) but don't get you're hopes up.
> 
> \-------
> 
> Well, lemme know if you're interested in the Throbb AUs


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